


What Comes Next.

by Clericish



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Character Study, Drabble Collection, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-31 15:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15122780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clericish/pseuds/Clericish
Summary: Things will never be the same.Or: A look into the lives of sinners and saints, transformed by the wings of fate.





	1. akira.

_”Don’t talk to strangers. Keep your head down. Please, stay in line. Your father can’t take another heartbreak.”_

The words Akira’s father had said to him had rung in his head like an echo since the day he had been shipped off on probation. Both of his dads had been equally shaken by the court hearing and the fact that their son-- their one and only who they had fought tooth and nail just to hold in their arms and call their own-- had destroyed his life in one bold move. They had been lucky for Sojiro; lucky that fate had decided to have a hand in salvaging Akira’s life that had been frazzled despite his good intentions. His fathers believed him when he told them what had happened, of course. But two men against the entire justice system held little to no weight at all.

_”Don’t talk to strangers.”_

From Akira’s spot on his futon, he could watch all of the activity around him. Futaba had introduced Yusuke to some videogame on his tiny TV; she had been trying vainly to explain that the game was supposed to be a battle game and not just an excuse for Yusuke to use the unusually brightly colored paint weapons to paint designs into the map. His designs had been impressive nonetheless, and the way his confidence rang out in his voice as he tried to explain his own angle of play lessened the bite in Futaba’s rebuttal just a little. Ryuji and Ann had been lying side-by-side on their stomachs and flipping through fashion magazines, Ryuji pointing out models that caught his interest and Ann trying to explain why bright colors were in this winter, and how _you can’t just judge an outfit by its model, Ryuji._ Makoto had been seated on the small couch, some novel she had been reading for class noncommittally tossed to the side for the time being as she smiled and laughed at the other antics in the room. Haru sat dutifully next to her, a very comfortable Morgana curled up on her lap while she read a superhero manga that Ryuji had brought over to her. She had been granted a permanent pass to his extensive collection and the way Haru’s eyes lit up every time he brought a new volume to their hangout sessions was never missed by Akira.

On one hand, Akira figured he should feel guilty for not listening to his father. For wreaking more havoc, even if he had little to no choice when it came to destiny knocking on his door. For going out of his way to create these bonds instead of focusing on his studies, focusing on not screwing something up for him and his entire family.

The pressure of being a leader had been tough, sure-- he had pushed himself past the point of exhaustion for the others on more than one account-- but there was a certain warmth that settled in his stomach whenever he remembered that in a way, they were all fated to meet. From Ryuji’s sunny smile to Makoto’s sharp-witted intellect to Haru’s tender composure; it was something that fate he decided he deserved, and then some.

”Dude, are you okay?” Ryuji had chimed in from his spot on the floor, kicking his feet up behind him in a way that made Ann suppress a smile next to him, “You’ve been spacin’ out for like… Ever.”

Akira blinked, then without a word stood his spot on the bed, plopping down in between Ann and Ryuji and wrapping an arm around each of them, pulling them both in for a hug.

”D-Dude!” Ryuji squirmed for a moment next to him, then submitted to the gesture with a red face, wrapping an arm around the other boy as well. Ann responded almost immediately and with twice the vigor, throwing both arms around both boys and nearly dragging the three of them toppling to the floor. Before Akira had realized it, Makoto had moved to join them, sitting cross-legged and huddling up next to Ann, laying her head on her shoulder and wrapping an arm gently around her waist. Yusuke followed next, scooting up behind Ryuji and leaving his gamepad sitting discarded on his chair, much to Futaba’s irritation. Haru squeezed in between Ann and Makoto, making herself comfortable amidst the small puddle of friends that had congregated on the floor. Morgana padded his way into Akira’s lap, kneading at the meat of his thigh before settling down in a faux-hug of his own. Seven pairs of eyes turned to Futaba, still scrunched with her legs pulled up to her chest, eyes focused on the game in front of her. Aware of the gaze on her, she sighed, rolling her eyes in a way that made it clear to everyone that there was no venom behind it. Finally, she draped her arms around Akira’s shoulders and stuck her tongue out at him, not unlike the obnoxious sister he had come to know her as.

For a moment Akira could do nothing but breathe, take in the warmth of the bodies around him and bask in the way they were all connected, like a series of strings tying every inch of every limb to each other, like a well-oiled machine only functional with the movement of every other piece. Akira’s heart was speeding up in his chest, the proximity and comfortable pressure of people leaning on him on every side setting something pleasant in his chest. There was something missing, some dimly severed strings that made his stomach threaten to drop at the thought of what he’d lost; at the thought of what he could have salvaged. It had burned a hole in his chest for longest time, thinking of the one boy he couldn’t bring to the other side with him. But the soft circles Ann was now rubbing into his shoulder and the feeling of Ryuji’s hair tickling his chin pushed down that guilt, reminding him that life was life and ashes were ashes; there was only so much one man could do. There were even fewer things that one man could handle alone.

”This is like one of those silly teenage TV dramas,” Haru chimed in after a moment of silence, earning a soft giggle from Ann next to her. Yusuke’s soft baritone sounded up behind him too, and soon the laughter had become contagious, spilling from their lungs like waves crashing out to sea, tossing and turning and shaking their bodies like tiny earthquakes. Akira wasn’t sure when he had started crying, or how he had ended up with a head in Yusuke’s lap while the others settled in kind, gasping for breath and staring up at the boarded ceiling above them. Sojiro would have already come up to check on them if the shop hadn’t closed forty-five minutes ago. Akira closed his eyes, unsure when wetness had began to gather at the edges of them, but simply let it be, basking in the radiant affection in the room.

He had found another family, to be certain. Another group of hearts to connect with, another plethora of experiences to be had. _I am thou, and thou art I._

”Thank you,” Akira had barely breathed it out, but a slim hand slipping into his own (a tap on his knee, a hand frazzling his hair, a soft peck to his cheek, a nuzzle into his shoulder) said more than could ever be said with words alone.


	2. goro.

The rising sun on the horizon stung Goro’s eyes. Sunspots danced in the corners of his vision, the purpling skin under his eyes burning with the effort of having travelled through the night without a wink of sleep.

His bags had been packed. His apartment wiped barren of the memories of the past few horrific years; it was always too sterile, anyway. Kept in a pristine condition that had almost no sign of life. And in a way, there wasn’t.

Goro sighed and ran his hands through his hair-- neatly cut into a short, boyish style by his own hand over his sink the day after years of hard work had fallen apart. Slipped through his fingers like sand, washed out to the ocean and buried thousands of leagues from his reach.

After all that work, he had failed.

He had even failed at dying, as luck would have it.

One moment he was sitting against the cold metal floor of the boiler room on Shido’s ship, ready to go down with the vessel. The next, the giant hull doors had opened, sucking the boy out to sea and sending him floundering at the surface of the vastness that was Shido’s subconscious ocean. Nearly drowning in his own father’s current; then again, hadn’t he been already?

The ocean was endless, the burning ship sinking beneath the surface like some sort of flaming albatross, finally lifting itself from Goro’s shoulders but somehow weighing down just as hard. Like an anchor had been tied to his ankle. He wanted to sink; fall down to the ocean floor with his own wasted work, with the Titanic-esque vessel that had floated his father’s ego and pride. But a familiar bright shape bobbing on the water’s surface in the distance had awoken him from his stupor, somehow.

He wasn’t sure why he had saved him, really. He should have let him drown there. Skull had never been a friend to him, had never even come close to somebody he could rely on. He had been a pest; he had wished he could step on him like some insignificant bug.

And yet, he had grabbed onto him. Acted as his lifeboat. Carried him to safety to some familiar stretch of grass that he couldn’t quite place with the salt and brine stinging his eyes still from the Metaverse. Had laid him to rest in the greenery like a pretty little package, like a gift for those who had somehow managed to leave him behind. Had they made it themselves? Were they looking for Skull?

_Were they looking for him?_

For a brief moment, Goro had wanted to smash the other boys’ face in. He looked so serene on the grass; like he was sleeping. The soft rise and fall of his chest was a privilege Goro would not experience until exhaustion overtook him so strongly that he would have no choice but to shut down. After all, who could sleep after all that?

Goro hated that Skull had a home to return to. That he had a future potentially stretched out in front of him. That he had won, and Goro had lost. That Goro had saved his damn life and Skull would never see it, would never understand because Goro couldn’t possibly understand why he had done it himself. That _Akira_ would never see it. That his father would never see it. That Goro would lose his life in the limelight-- a life he had never cared for but thrived off of-- and he could see a headline now about saving the life of a young boy on every television in town. About how he was courageous, about how the fabulous Boy Detective was a hero, a man to be admired, a man to be _loved--_

In the end, Goro had turned on his heel and fled for his apartment. Had packed everything worth a cent to him, slashed off all of his hair and donned his most inconspicuous clothes. Had left the white, pristine walls of his apartment-- the only home the had ever been his since he had lived with his mother so many years ago-- and booked a ticket on a train far away from Tokyo. Some little farm town, far out of the way of where he had been born and raised. He had heard the name vaguely; the town where the first Boy Detective had lived, before Goro’s own claim to fame. Someplace quiet. Hopefully, someplace safe.

After everything-- after the Phantom Thieves, after Shido’s plotting, after years of sitting in foster care-- Goro finally felt tired. Exhausted in a way that transcended any sort of sleep. But relieved, like he had finally dug something cancerous out of his chest. Like when he was a child, when his mother was still alive; when he had sat up late reading comic books about superheroes that his mother had treated him to after an unusually bountiful paycheck with a flashlight under his comforter. She had always told him not to stay up too late, that he would be too sleepy in the morning. More often than not she would walk in on Goro with the flashlight still on, having fallen asleep in the middle of reading. He had always woken up tucked in, the book neatly bookmarked on his bedside table. The ache behind his eyes felt the same now, on this rickety train racing across the countryside toward his new home; a new future.

The rising sun on the horizon stung Goro’s eyes. The train slowly came to a stop. The doors slid open, and Goro stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. The fresh, clean air felt like breathing for the first time. He could feel every beat of his heart in his throat, echoing like a song in his ears. A song he had never heard before; a holy hymn formulated for him and him alone. Out of habit, he moved to sweep the hair from his eyes only to find nothing beneath his fingertips. A reminder of what he had left behind. Goro took a deep breath; in, then out.

Back in Shido’s ocean, he had wanted to sink. Now, it was time to swim.


End file.
